spread across his face. ‘I meant for you and the child to share the bed. Did you think I meant otherwise?’
She blushed, bringing a most innocent pink to her cheeks, her eyes downcast. ‘You know very well what I thought.’
He stepped behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. The little girl’s curls tickled his fingers. For a moment he let his fingers caress Madeleine’s soft flesh. He held her against him, inhaling the scent of lavender in her hair. From behind her, he planted a chaste kiss on her cheek and gave her a push toward the bed.
‘Sleep well, Madeleine.’
T he damp chill seeped through Devlin’s clothing. His twisted limbs would not move. Pain had settled into a constant ache, made worse with each breath, worse still by the rancid stench of blood. Of death. Moans of the dying filled the night. The sounds grew louder and louder, until they merged into one piercing wail. An agonised sound. The sound of fear and horror and pain.
Coming from his mouth.
He woke, his heart pounding, breath panting. His vision cleared, revealing faded red-brocade curtains made moderately brighter by sunlight. What were brocade curtains doing at Waterloo?
He sat up, his mind absorbing the round mahogany table in the corner with its decanter of port, the mantel holding one chipped porcelain vase. His back ached from contorting himself on the settee. It had been the dream. He hung his head between his knees until the disturbing images receded. Had he cried out in his sleep?
The wail again sounded in his ears, coming from the bedchamber this time, not from his own soul.
He leapt from the settee and flung open the door. Madeleine paced the room, clutching her little girl. The child cried and struggled in her arms. Madeleine’s red dress was creased with wrinkles. That she’d not bothered to undress before sleeping moved him to compassion. How exhausted she must have been.
The child gave a loud, anguished cry, and Madeleine quickened her pace.
‘What the devil is going on?’
She spun toward him, her youthful face pinched in worry. ‘She is feverish.’
‘She is ill?’ Devlin’s head throbbed from the previous night’s excess of brandy.
‘Yes. She coughs, too.’ Her voice caught. ‘I have never seen her so ill.’
‘Good God,’ Devlin said. ‘We must do something.’
‘I don’t know what to do!’
Tears glistened in her eyes. The child’s wailing continued unchecked. He had not bargained for a sick child.
‘Bart!’ he yelled, rushing back into the parlour. ‘Bart! Where are you?’
Bart emerged from his room, Madeleine’s small companion like a shadow behind him. The sergeant, his craggy eyebrows knitting together, protectively held her back. The gesture irritated Devlin. Did Bart think him dangerous to young females?
‘What in thunder?’ A scold was written on Bart’s face.
‘The child is sick. We must do something.’ He stood in the middle of the room, doing nothing.
‘The wee one is sick?’ parroted Bart, standing just as paralysed.
‘Linette!’ Sophie rushed past Bart and ran to Madeleine, who had followed Devlin into the room. She frantically felt the child’s forehead.
‘She is burning up!’ she exclaimed. ‘Maddy, sit down. Let’s loosen her clothes. Mr Bart, if you please, some cool water and some clean rags.
‘Clean rags?’ Bart said, still immobile.
‘Make haste!’
At Sophie’s words, Bart sprang into action, drawing water from the pump and bringing it to the women, both fussing over the child. Finding clean rags was more of a challenge. He finally brought a stack of towels and bade them to cut them up, if necessary. Sophie dipped one towel in the water, wrung it out and placed it on the child’s chest. Madeleine mopped the little girl’s brow with another.
The child seemed to settle for a moment, but, before Devlin could relax, broke out in a spasm of coughing.
‘Deuce,’ said Devlin, barely audible and still rooted to the floor.
Madeleine flashed him an anxious look. ‘I am attempting to quiet her, my lord.’
‘I did not complain,’ he protested.
Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I am at a loss to do more.’
‘I would be honoured to assist, if someone would instruct me.’ No one heeded him.
Madeleine sniffed and patted Linette’s head with the damp cloth.
Her friend regarded him with a wary expression. ‘We could try to give her a drink of water.’
Before Devlin could move to the small alcove that served as the kitchen, Bart delivered Sophie a cup of water.
‘Let me try to give her a sip,’ Madeleine said.
Linette flailed her arms, jostling Madeleine, who spilled the water on her daughter and herself. Devlin walked to the cupboard, removed another cup, and placed in it a tiny bit of water. He handed this to Madeleine.
‘Try a bit at a time,’ he suggested.
She did not look up to acknowledge his act, but she was able to pour a small amount into the child’s mouth. He took the empty cup and poured a bit more from the fuller one. Again the child accepted the drink.
Devlin was feeling rather proud of himself at having been so useful, when the child began another spell of coughing. Madeleine sat the little girl on her knees and leaned her over to pat her gently on the back.
The child promptly vomited the water all over Devlin’s stockinged feet.
‘Damn.’
Madeleine gasped. Sophie grabbed the wet towel and wiped his feet, kneeling like a slave girl. Bart glared at him as if he were somehow solely responsible for the child’s ill health.
‘Enough. Enough.’ He stepped away from Sophie’s ministrations. She burst into tears and ran from the room.
Bart glared at him. ‘Now look what you’ve done. You’ve frightened the lass.’ He rushed after her.
Devlin reached for his head. Bart, he supposed, would not be inclined to brew the remedy for his excess of brandy. The child wailed again.
The sound triggered memories. Voices of dying men. His knees trembled, and he feared them buckling underneath him. The dream of Waterloo assailed his waking moments. With it came the terror that had only been too real.
Clamping down on his panic, he rushed into his bedchamber
